Perchance to Dream
by Nightshade Scribe
Summary: Finwë remembers his wife's death. Now with some slight editions, mainly mending of minor errors and the addition of a term of endearment.


**I acknowledge that I changed events slightly, but I do not think that they interfere with the greater work. This work is almost entirely mine, though there are a couple of quotes from the Good Book (the one by the Professor, that is). A word on names: Finwë originally gave his son the name of Finwion, "son of Finwë." This was later changed, when Fëanor's talents began to emerge. I have also read (though largely online, so forgive me if my sources were unreliable) that elves gave names to their spouses when they wed; these were the most commonly chosen epessës. Thus Mírinya, which would translate to "my jewel" (if I didn't screw up on my minimal Quenya). Eru, I love them together. **

* * *

It's ridiculous, I know, but I can never stop thinking that there is something that I could have done that would have saved her. Often, I think that I dismissed her words too easily. Had I paid more attention, then I would have gone to the Valar earlier, and then maybe she might have been saved.

Or perhaps I just want to imagine Mírinya alive.

* * *

He came a season early, as if he had had enough of being confined to the womb and wanted already to make his mark on the world. Yet for all his eagerness the labor was slow and painful, and my wife, always a delicate woman, managed to bruise my hand when she clutched it in pain. The pregnancy had been difficult enough, with Mírinya often feeling ill, but it seemed like nothing compared to the birth.

The hours crawled by, melting into what seemed like one endless stretch of agony, before our son was finally born. By that time it was the Second Mingling of the Lights, and the glow of the Trees flowed through the curtains, but I don't think Yavanna's creations had anything to do--or indeed- could even compare to--the glow on Mírinya's face as she took the baby into her arms.

"You wouldn't guess that he was born early," said the midwife. "I've seen many weaker babies that came late."

"He has a strong spirit," I replied.

"A fiery one," Mírinya said, her voice hoarse from screaming. "And I shall call him that: Fëanáro."

I smiled even wider. "An excellent name for him."

Mírinya's smile faded a little. "He consumes..." She leaned into the pillows, her eyes closed, and said something to herself, too soft for me to hear.

"What?"

She looked up at me, and suddenly I saw how pale she was. "He has sapped me, Finwë. Never again shall I bear child, for strength that would have nourished the life of many has gone forth into Fëanáro."

I looked at the midwife, troubled, and she said, "That's what they all say. Then I'm back there not many years later."

I hoped that she was right; only minutes after becoming a father, I wanted more children with my wife, many more.

But Mírinya shook her head. "I mean what I say."

I sighed. "Just rest now, love. You will recover in time."

* * *

She did not, though. She attended our son's essecarmë, where I gave him the father-name of Finwion, but it was a great trial for her, and even smiling as she greeted our guests and accepted their congratulations took so much out of her that I had to carry her to bed afterwards. And she began to act strangely.

I entered our room one day to find her sitting up in bed, needles in hand, embroidering some piece of cloth. She had spent the last year sewing clothes and blankets and sundries in preparation for our child, but now she was working on something else, a garment of a size larger than mine, and she had a finished pile by her side already. "Are you doing commissions again, Serindë?" I asked her, pleased to see that her strength seemed to be returning, but she shook her head.

"It is for Fëanáro."

Fëanáro was, at that moment, sleeping in his cradle at the side of our bed. He could easily have fit into one sleeve of the robe Mírinya was holding.

"Mírinya--"

"Oh, I know that he is young now," she said calmly. "These are for when he gets older." She holds out the robe, a gorgeous creation that could have come only from her. "It is for his wedding day."

"But why now? I should hope he will not marry before he can walk! Besides, how can you even be sure you have the right size?"

"My heart guides my hands," she said. "It will fit. And I sew his clothes now because I will not be with him at his wedding, or even throughout his childhood." Her eyes filled with a terrible sadness. "This I also know in my heart. Only my love for him gives me the strength to work. I make now what he will have throughout his life, and you will gift them to him as he grows." Suddenly she smiled, and pulled something from her pile of finished work. "And this will go to one of his children. I am making enough for many."

"Mírinya, you know how I hate to hear you speak this way. It is normal to be weary after bearing a child; you need not talk of death."

"Oh, but this is not simply bodily exhaustion. Finwë, I am consumed to my very spirit."

"Is it that you are unwilling to bear more children, then? Fëanáro can be enough."

"I have had enough. He could not help it, so I am not angry at him, and nor should you be."

"Then stay, my heart. For Fëanáro's sake."

She sighed and put down the robe so she could reach over and stroke his head. "No. I love him so, but I cannot continue in this life, even for him."

* * *

It was that incident which convinced me of how serious things were, and which finally spurred me to go to Manwë, who advised me to take her to Irmo in Lórien. "Many find rest there," he said.

"Lórien," said Mírinya thoughtfully when I told her of this. "It will be beautiful at least."

So she readied herself to go, choosing a fine dress (staying in bed for months had given her no need to dress well) and brushing the snarls from her hair (I had been doing this for her since Fëanáro was born). She seemed more herself than she had been in over a year.

Before we left, she told me to wait while she said her goodbyes to Fëanáro. She picked him up and held him until he squirmed to be let go. She continued to clutch him, though, until he whined, "Amil!"

At that she burst into tears, sobbing into his hair and mururing unintelligible things.

My heart sank. "We can wait a while longer," I said.

She shook her head. "It must be so," she said through her tears. Fëanáro had been running his hand over her face, fascinated by the water pouring from his mother's eyes. She peeled the hand away and kissed it. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "Amil has to go; she wishes she didn't have to, but--" She broke down again. "I love you. I love you." She kissed him again and finally set him back down. "Farewell, my son."

"Mírinya, you will frighten him."

"Should I leave him without saying goodbye?"

Even then I did not believe her, even as she left the room, her shoulders heaving with sobs, and only when the palace was long out of sight was she able to wipe her face and look straight ahead for a short while before resting her head on my shoulder and drifting into sleep.

* * *

We came to Lórien, and she seemed to find a strange sort of peace. We sat together in a meadow, with Laurelin shining warm on our faces, and she said, "I think I will stay a while here."

"I will miss you while you're gone. As will Fëanáro." But, I thought, at least there was hope.

A shadow fell over her face at the mention of our son, but all she said was, "It is indeed unhappy, and I would weep, if I were not so weary. But hold me blameless in this, and in all things that might come after."

"Sleep then, love," I said.

She laid her head in my lap, and I wound the golden flowers through her hair. She looked at part of the result and smiled. "It is pretty," she said. She took my hand and kissed it. "Please do not be angry," she said. "Know that I love you."

"Angry for what?"

But she had already fallen into a light sleep and did not answer. After a time my head began to nod, overcome by the sweet enchantment of Lórien, and I fell asleep as well.

* * *

It was much later when my eyes finally opened again. The Second Mingling of the Lights had entirely passed, and Telperion shone from the Ezellohar. I sat up, rubbing my eyes. Mírinya was still asleep. The flowers in her hair had shriveled, and I picked them out. Something felt strange to me, though.

After a moment of thinking, it hit me with painful horror: she was entirely still.

"Mírinya," I said desperately. Perhaps she was just sleeping, very deeply. "Mírinya?"

_I think I will stay a while here..._

"_Mírinya!_"

_-finis-_


End file.
